Breaker
by Godspeed Revolution
Summary: THE MERRY GENTLEMAN. How Frank started thinking of himself as a killer.


A/N: _The Merry Gentleman _is a miserable little Christmas movie about a hit man. I figure on this taking place 10-15 years before the film. Thanks for reading.

Disclaimer: Property of Samuel Goldwyn Films, and whatever other assorted affiliates.

Rated K+ for themes of suicide and homicide.

* * *

Frank hadn't always thought of himself as a killer. For a long time since he began his after-hours activities, Frank thought of it as something he had done now and then and not who he was. Aside from the few short moments when he did what the big man had told him to do, he was Frank, a boy who had grown up in the ordinary way, a man who lived in the ordinary way. When the big man told him what to do, he lived in a peculiar way, but that was only for a few short moments.

On a Thursday, Frank changed this way of thinking about himself. The event that caused his revelation was a man named Grant who was too short. Grant had purchased a $900 designer suit and discovered that the two-inch cuff on the trouser legs made his already average-sized frame appear disproportionately undersized. Grant brought his suit into Duru's Custom Shirts & Suits and requested the cuffs be let out.

Lester showed him into the back room. Frank was pressing a sleeve hem and did not turn around when Lester explained the order. When Lester introduced Frank, he turned to face Grant and his poorly chosen suit, hand outstretched.

Grant had a sagging face that was not prone to smiling. When he saw Frank, the skin on his face fell even further, his mouth slowly gaping into a down-turned U shape, the bags of skin around his eyes widening into diagonal slants of fear. Frank's face was not sagging, but it was also not prone to smiling. His face, however, did not move when he saw Grant's reaction. Grant blushed, stammered some form of greeting, and hastily turned towards the full length mirror without taking Frank's hand.

That was when Frank knew that mostly, he was killer instead of a tailor.

When Grant's suit was finished, Frank wondered for a long time how he had known him. He might have been a client. Frank never saw them, but did they ever see him? A witness? An enemy of the big man? Who would know him?

The answer was that nobody knew him, so Frank stopped worrying about it.

After that, Frank started thinking about himself differently. The realization might have hit upon him suddenly, but the understanding and acceptance of what his identity meant took a long time to sink in. At first, Frank behaved the same. He woke up in the mornings. He went to sleep in the evenings. In between, he did his work. Sometimes his work was different.

Frank had a crucifix hanging on the wall above his front door. He had had it there for a long time and didn't think about it very much anymore. One day after Grant came into Duru's Custom Shirts & Suits, Frank started thinking about it again. He thought about his new identity and the look in Grant's saggy eyes when he'd tried to shake his hand. He thought about the things he had done in his life for the big man. He thought about how he had grown up ordinarily and lived like that until he started doing things for the big man.

Frank stood on a chair to remove the crucifix from the wall. He put it into a cardboard photograph box half-full of pictures a decade old and replaced the box on the top shelf of his hallway closest, next to a broken cassette player and a black suitcase containing a black Heckler & Koch .45. When it was in the box, Frank didn't think about it much.

* * *

On a Wednesday, the big man came in for a suit. Lester showed him into the back room.

When Frank heard the big man's distinctive footsteps, he stopped what he was doing and went to shake his hand. The big man took his hand and shook it with a firm grip. The big man stood in front of the mirror, inspecting his appearance while Frank got his tools.

"How ya doing, Frank? You been good? Life been treating you good?" the big man said as he turned first to the right, then to the left.

"I've been good," Frank said. He measured the length from the outside joint of the big man's elbow to the shoulder seam. He already had it memorized, but he did it just the same.

"You look good," the big man said. He laughed, a booming, boisterous laugh. "I tell ya, Frank, I need this suit bad. I've got a meeting with a big-time executive on the 3rd and damned if I'm not going in blazing." He laughed again.

Frank nodded. The third. He adjusted the coat cuff.

"Not so tight, Frank! I don't know how you stay in business. Better make it 32, and I don't mean centimeters. And I think I want a notch, eh? Down the center, ya hear? The center."

32 Center Street. Frank didn't write it down. He memorized it.

"Don't talk so much, Frank, or I'm firing you and giving Lester your job." He laughed again, as if at a private joke.

The big man plucked at the coat lapels. "This color's doing nothing for me here. Makes me look like I'm going gray…" He combed his fingers through his hair to emphasize the point, frowning at his reflection. "Gives me a good ten years, huh?"

Frank tilted his head in acknowledgement. Mid-fifties. Gray hair.

The big man sighed. "My girl's saying I'm getting too old, ya know? Me, I think maybe it's time to get a new girl."

"What's this one's name?" Frank asked.

"Marcie. Grant." The big man chuckled, but no longer friendly. "Oh, that Miss Grant. How she does entertain me."

The third of next month. 32 Center Street. Middle-aged man, gray hair, named Grant.

"Any particular color in mind?" Frank asked.

The big man paused, a devilish glint in his eyes. "How's red sound? A nice dark one, sort of maroon. Whadya think? Too retro?"

"I think you can pull it off," Frank said.

The big man laughed, slapped Frank on the back, and told Lester to bill him. Frank stared as the big man pulled on his original suit coat, then said:

"What do you think of when you think of me?"

The big man always had a smile on his face, no matter what he was really thinking. "You're a funny kinda fellow, Frank, and a good man to have around. Whenever I need a suit, that is. That's what I think of you." He winked, adjusted his collar, gave himself a final inspection in the mirror, and turned to leave. On the threshold, he paused.

"Remember, I need it by the third."

Frank nodded. "I'll pick you out a nice red," he said. Red meant accidental. The big man laughed. When he was gone, Frank chose a bolt of burgundy pinstripe wool. He didn't know what the big man did with the suits he pretended to be ordering. Frank never asked. Then he got to work making the suit that meant Grant on the third by accidental death.

* * *

After Grant was dead, Frank went home. The work had been completed in between the time he left Duru's for the evening and the time when rush-hour traffic was at its worst. He did not try to remember how many had come before Grant.

Frank lived in a duplex on a wide, tree-lined street on the northern side of town. It was a nice place, and his neighbors were quiet. All the town houses were freshly painted and well kept, some with compact patches of grass encased within wrought iron fences that were mainly there to look attractive. People here did not worry about anyone breaking into their yards. Frank shared one interior wall and a two-car garage with the neighbors in the other side of the duplex.

When he got home, he drove his Subaru into the garage. His neighbors were not home and the garage was empty. He sat in his car for a long time, listening to the engine running, staring out the windshield at the unpainted drywall that made up the garage interior. After a while, he got out of the car and closed the garage door. He went back to the Subaru and kept the door open, listening to the rhythmic dinging of the door-open alarm. It made a sort of harmony with the drone of the engine.

Frank thought about the burgundy suit he had made for the big man. He thought about how he had come here and how this had happened. When he was growing up, he had not imagined he would ever be in a place like this. He could not exactly remember what he had imagined his adult life would be like, but he was sure he had not wanted it to be like this. Frank had the acidic taste of exhaust in the back of his throat. The air around him was foggy, brownish-gray, and made him sick. He thought he could hold on for a little longer.

Inside, Frank knew he was not going to kill himself. He had known it all along, but some part of him still thought that just maybe he would. In the end though, the garage was only an experiment, to see how it would feel if he ever really did it. He thought that he probably could, if it ever came down to it.

Frank turned off the engine. The smoke settled, poison particles falling onto floor, walls, seats, and clothes. Frank opened the garage door and breathed in the air. He could smell the exhaust smoke on his body, but after a while it faded. Or maybe he had gotten so used to smelling it, he stopped noticing it.

Then Frank went inside and called the big man on the telephone and told him the burgundy suit was ready. After that, Frank always thought of himself as a killer.


End file.
